Sattler, Veronica (34 page)

The
smuggling had become an entire industry and England, particularly in wartime,
depended on it. Indeed, as Patrick had been told by his parents as soon as he
was old enough and could participate himself, if it weren't for the free
traders, many a legitimate industry or business could not have survived.
Without smuggled madder for the dyers, for example, how could the textile
industry have continued? Without the gin, wines and brandies, what inn or
public house would not have perished? And the purveyors of fashion! How would
their businesses have fared without the silks and laces from abroad?

So,
largely because they were having trouble keeping their own financial heads
above water, Patrick's parents had sought out a couple of local people they'd
had good reason to suspect were involved in free trading, and had joined in,
and Patrick, once he returned from his stint at sea, went along with them.

But
he could still remember the look of astonishment on all their faces the night
Mary Westmont had appeared on the arm of Jemmy Stokes, ready to take their
contraband to its hiding place in the cellar beneath the stables. Of course,
what had been more astonishing was her reason for doing so, in lieu of any
monies she might have accepted for her part. She had prevailed upon her adoring
Italian husband to set up this liaison for her through one of his many shipping
connections so that she might smuggle
herself
into the country where her
desperately missed son still resided, so that she might occasionally have
firsthand word of the lad and even, when she was lucky, a fleeting, distant
glimpse.

After
hearing her story, Patrick's parents, always ready to help a friend, had
readily agreed to let her stay with them during these brief visits. They had
been inordinately fond of Mary Westmont as a neighbor during the time she'd
lived at Ravensford Hall—and just as
un
enamored of the cold duke, her
father-in-law, and his even colder sister; to hear what had befallen the woman
at those uncaring hands had stirred their outraged sympathies. Mary had found a
means of watching over her son.

Of
course, Patrick himself had been sworn to secrecy, especially where Brett
Westmont was concerned. Fearing reprisals should word of these doings reach the
elder Westmonts, Mary had decided it best not to involve her son. Moreover,
from what she learned of the lad's tutored attitude toward her and women in
general, she was not very sanguine about reestablishing any kind of personal
relationship with Brett during those years. She sometimes hinted of dreams that
she might one day meet with him and heal the breach, but for the time, she was
content with the knowledge that he was well.

Patrick
made a gesture of impatience as he thought of the tragedy of Mary—Maria, now,
he amended—and the Westmonts. Such a waste of years... such a terrible
schism... to separate a loving mother from her son. And who, he wondered, not
for the first time in all these years, had been responsible for it? Who was it
who had blackened Maria's name all those long years ago?

But
suddenly Patrick's thoughts had no more room for ancient mysteries. A far more
personal mystery had been cleared up, thanks to the contessa. Ashleigh was
alive,
and now, for the first time in months, he could truly go about a search for
her! Tonight he would take advantage of Brett's invitation to stay at the Hall.
Then, tomorrow, he would begin his search in earnest—and this time, by God, he
would find her!

Ashleigh
threaded her way through the clusters of conversing guests in the drawing room,
stopping for a moment here and there to listen or smile politely as a remark
was thrown her way. From time to time she gave quiet directions to efficiently
moving footmen when she saw the need for a gentleman's glass to be refilled or
a tray of refreshments that required replenishing. This, she thought, was the
easy part of being a hostess. All one had to do was imagine oneself as one of
the guests, and the rest followed as a matter of course.

What
Ashleigh didn't realize was that she was a natural candidate for the role. She
may have spent only the first seven years of her life in such genteel
surroundings, but the foundation she had received then, coupled with her own
native intelligence and an inborn capacity to consider others, was more than
adequate to see her through a role that some might spend a lifetime trying to
assume. There was an art to making others feel at ease and welcome in one's
home, and without realizing it consciously, in this regard, Ashleigh Sinclair
was an artist.

But
as she moved about the room, Ashleigh's serenely smiling countenance failed to
reveal a number of thoughts that had to do with what she regarded as the more
difficult aspects of her role as the duke of Ravensford's hostess. As she saw
it, her chief shortcoming in being able to carry out her duties was that she
was not only unsophisticated but also naive when it came to the mores of the
ton.
Why, she could still remember her shock as the earl of Ranleagh had
informed her, ever so casually and much as if he were discussing the weather,
that Lady Pamela was the duke's mistress! And she'd had a similar reaction when
she'd learned of the liaison between Mr. Shelley and Miss Wollstonecraft.
Surely, she thought to herself, her callow sensibilities had been obvious to
all. She reflected for a moment on the polished air of someone like Lady
Jersey, who was renowned for her abilities as a hostess, and tried to imagine
how she would have handled such incidents. One thing was sure; she certainly
wouldn't have acted like a schoolgirl about to recite her first piece!

Ashleigh
was just chastising herself along these lines when she saw Christopher Edwards
making his way toward her from where he'd been standing in conversation with
Pamela Marlowe.

"Ah,
there you are, princess," said the earl. "I told Pamela I was hoping
we wouldn't have to search you out."

"Search
me out? Why, Christopher, I've been readily available for whoever needs me for
the past—"

"Oh,
yes, of course—" he smiled "—and a more perfectly charming hostess
Brett couldn't wish for, though I'm convinced he hardly deserves you. But, no,
what I was referring to was our desire—Lady Pamela's and mine, that is—to be as
inconspicuous as possible in making our farewells."

"You're
leaving?"

"I'm
afraid so, princess, though the charming look of disappointment on your
beautiful face almost persuades me to stay."

"Oh,
but then, why don't you? The dinner we've planned for this evening
promises—"

"Ah,
yes, I'm sure it's to be a gastronomical delight, but the fact is, you see,
that it's Pamela who needs to withdraw, and I have promised to see her
home."

Ashleigh
glanced past his shoulder and saw Pamela Marlowe looking at them, an unhappy
glimmer in her eyes. "I see," she said quietly. "Well, I'm not
sure where Brett is right now, but—"

"Good
God, Ashleigh," Christopher interrupted, "Brett is the
last
person
we'd wish to summon up now! That's why I've sought
you
out. Pamela has
no wish to see His Grace, ah, 'before Hell freezes over,' I believe is the
wording she used."

"Oh,"
said Ashleigh, nodding. "Very well, then, your lordship, allow me to see
you and the lady to your carriage." She threw an encouraging smile at
Pamela as she said this and was gratified to see the blonde nod stiffly and
attempt a smile in return.

A
few minutes later, as Ashleigh turned in the entry hall, having seen Pamela and
the earl off, she was approached by a footman coming from the far end of the
hallway.

"What
is it, Robert?" she asked with a smile. She congratulated herself on
remembering his name, even though Robert was new to the Hall. In fact, she now
knew the names of all those who served on the vast staff at Ravensford Hall—no
mean feat in itself, but it had been one of the first duties she had taken upon
herself when she came to work here, and the servants noticed and appreciated
it. Why, there were some who, even after years of service, were still hailed by
Iron Skirts as "boy," or "you, there, miss," but the little
miss knew and seemed to care about each one of them, and they were not apt to
forget it.

"A
message for you, Miss Sinclair," said Robert. "Your presence is
requested upstairs, in your chamber."

"In
my chamber? But who would want...? Whom is the message from, Robert?"

"Ah,
that I couldn't say, miss. It was transmitted to me by Mr. Jameson." The
look on Robert's face seemed to indicate he was genuinely sorry he couldn't
give her more information.

"Very
well, Robert." Ashleigh smiled reassuringly. "Thank you."

Robert
bowed respectfully and retreated down the hallway.

Now,
who could be summoning her up to her chamber just when she was sorely needed
down here? Ashleigh wondered as she headed for the stairway. Margaret and
Elizabeth seemed to have disappeared, and she hadn't seen Brett in over an
hour, so it was imperative that she remain below with the guests.
Someone
had
to see to their needs!

A
few minutes later she turned the ornate brass handle on her chamber door and
pushed it open. When she entered, she found herself staring into the stern turquoise
gaze of Brett Westmont.

Not
sure how she should react to his presence in her chamber, Ashleigh glanced at
the still-open door she'd been about to shut behind her, and then back at
Brett.

"Go
ahead, leave it ajar if you wish," he told her. "I wouldn't want
any... confusion to attend the purpose of this interview." There was a
faint hint of mockery in his tone.

Ashleigh
decided to ignore it. "You sent for me, Your Grace?"

"Ah,
ever the polite, ever the proper, ever the perfect, formal Miss Sinclair,"
he mocked. "You were to call me
Brett,
remember?
Say it,
lovely
Ashleigh, say my name, or has the name of another replaced it in your
lexicon?"

This
last was delivered with a vehemence that was so far beyond his usual range of
cool reserve that Ashleigh took a moment to study him before replying. He was
standing near one of the windows that faced the front drive of the Hall,
looking every inch the noble lord of the manor in his well-cut riding clothes,
but he'd removed the jacket and hung it over the back of a nearby chair, and
his stock as well. This left him in shirt sleeves, and the shirt was half
undone at the top, displaying more than a glimpse of the whorls of deep
mahogany hair that covered his chest. The result was not so much an image of
dishevelment as of roguish indifference to propriety, and Ashleigh felt herself
shiver at this effect.

Then
she noticed he held a glass in his hand, and on the floor, near the chair that
bore his jacket and stock, stood a half-empty bottle of brandy. Remembering another
time she'd seen him drinking in a similar chamber down the hall, she swallowed
past the lump that formed in her throat and answered, "...Brett."

"Ah,"
he nodded, "so you can yet recall the syllable, but still, that does not
signify that you would not prefer to be uttering another name, one... shall I
say, of greater length?" He took a step toward her, and Ashleigh, who had
not moved from beyond the doorway since entering the chamber, had to force
herself not to retreat into the hall.

"I—I
do not take your meaning, Your Gr— Brett."

"Do
you not?" he inquired sharply as he closed the distance between them.
"Well, then, allow me to spell it out for you. The name you would prefer
to speak—" he held out his glass in the pose of an actor delivering a
soliloquy "—'trippingly on the tongue,' is it not... Christopher?"
There was a brief, bitter twist of his lips as he finished the question, and
his eyes looked cold and cruel as they held hers.

The
insinuation was so far from anything Ashleigh might have expected, she drew in
a quick, sharp breath before giving her reply. "Why—why, no, I—what would
make you ask such a thing?"

Brett
turned, set his glass on a stand near the bed and walked back toward the
window, acting much as if he hadn't heard her. "You just saw Christopher
Edwards to his carriage. Why?"

Beginning
to feel annoyance at his incessant questioning, Ashleigh took a few steps into
the room and placed her hands at her hips as her gaze followed his out the
window. "I was seeing
both
his lordship
and
Lady Pamela
Marlowe to his carriage, to be precise. The lady, it seems, had had enough of
your insouciant bad manners and asked to be taken back to London."

Brett
whirled on her, his gaze a menacing turquoise glare. "So, the little
kitten has claws, has she? Well, perhaps you'd care to enlighten me, pretty
cat, as to just what I have done to bring such words of condemnation down upon
my head?"

He
was standing very close to her now, near enough for Ashleigh to notice the
thick sweep of mahogany lashes that framed eyes that were almost too beautiful
for a man's, and at the corners of those eyes, faint little lines that were
pale in contrast to the bronze of his tanned face and came from squinting
against the sun.